


Of kappa and company

by RabidRabbit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is bloody useful, Mild Gore, Monster of the Week, perfectly PG bathing scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidRabbit/pseuds/RabidRabbit
Summary: When need of coin and source material lead Geralt and Jaskier to a village pestered by a livestock grabbing creature, they are once more reminded that the worst monsters are those one doesn't see.Set immediately after ep. 1x02
Comments: 65
Kudos: 414
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Hard roads

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here I am, brand new to the fandom and first time poster of anything here on AO3. 
> 
> First things first: English is not my native language. I'd be very grateful for any mistake in grammar or spelling and wrong choice of words you point out to me. :) 
> 
> As said, I am brand new to the fandom and just started re-watching the series. It will therefore be strictly series canon, as I try to limit my research so I won't get spoilered too horribly before I manage to get my hands on the books.

Jaskier was severely regretting his method of travel. If he had known he’d be following a witcher out into the bleak wilderness he’d have brought more than his lute and the clothes on his back when leaving Posada, no matter what he would have needed to do to get it. 

Running after a horseman who didn’t seem very inclined to wait for you was very, very different from joining a convoy of equally slow and untrained traders and merchants. He could usually catch a ride on a wagon or cart in exchange for some songs in the evenings, or at least walk at the pace of plodding draft horses or oxen rather than lithe and fast Roach. 

The walking wouldn’t be quite as bad if he didn’t hurt all over. The sylvan and the elves hadn’t been kind on his poor, poor body, and every breath hurt after the completely unexpected punch Geralt had given him when they’d first set off. 

No matter. This was the muse he wanted, the muse he’d been looking for, and it was worth a little pain. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he hobbled after the click-clack of iron shod hooves on the stony road. 

He supposed Geralt wasn’t _quite_ as opposed to his presence as he said. If he were, just a few miles at a trot or a canter would have the witcher free of Jaskier and back to solitude, there was no way a normal man could keep up with a running horse for long.

Duskfall brought a chill that crept upon the bard slowly. He’d been strumming the strings of his new lute while walking, making up tunes and words only to discard them. It was only when his fingers lost the suppleness born of years and years of playing that he noticed he was cold and that the darkness was creeping in. 

Geralt didn’t show signs of stopping for the night though. He’d dismounted some time ago, walking alongside his horse and murmuring in her ear in that husky voice of his. Jaskier hadn’t tried to catch up with them, one punch a day was enough, but now he found himself creeping closer. The chatter of birds finding a place to roost was heard all around, and the knowledge that all manner of less friendly creatures would now be waking up to find a meal made him long for the witcher’s presence, punches or not. 

They continued on like that for maybe another hour, the pale glow of the moon the only thing lighting their path. Rocks and potholes that Geralt and Roach missed without interrupting their stride seemed to spring up underneath Jaskiers feet as soon as he tried to place them on the path, making him stumble and trip every other step.  
It was when the bard was on his knees due to another one of those stumbles and biting his tongue to keep from crying out that Geralt left the road and led his horse up the hillside, either following a trail Jaskier couldn’t see or just picking a place at random. 

With a groan of effort, Jaskier swung his lute back onto his back and straightened his legs. The witcher still hadn’t said a word to him, but as not being told to fuck off was just about the same as being invited in when you were a man that lived by his charm and a quick mouth, Jaskier followed him up and away from the road. 

Boulders and shrubs clung to the steep hillside, loose gravel and dirt keeping them in place until a storm or heavy rain would make them tumble down to some new spot. Roach and her master had disappeared among them in just a blink of Jaskier’s eyes, and he felt a sudden pang of genuine fear. He didn’t like his chances if the witcher had left him here to survive the night alone, without a weapon or even flint and steel to defend himself.

The ‘thump’ of a saddle being placed on a convenient rock saved him from true panic. It had been close by, and now that the fear was leaving his mind, he could hear soft footfalls and the clink of a bridle against stone. 

Geralt was stacking thin, brittle branches into a pile when Jaskier placed his lute next to Roach’s tack and flopped down on the ground beside it. A slight movement of the witchers fingers and the flames came up, the sudden flickering glow utterly blinding after the darkness Jaskier’s eyes had been used to. The warmth that washed over him was very welcome though, his fingers stiff with cold.

Geralt moved on once the fire was burning properly, rummaging in his saddlebags. A small pot and a waterskin came out of one, a large, almost empty sack out of the other. Roach’s interested nicker was answered with a gruff “Yes, yes, don’t be hasty.”, the first words loud enough for Jaskier to understand since they set off in the afternoon.

The sack turned out to be filled with crushed oats, a good pile of which ended up on the floor in front of the horse’s nose, to be gobbled up quickly by her eager lips.  
Jaskier expected the witcher to place it back from whence it came, but Geralt squatted next to the pot and waterskin he’d put beside the fire earlier and started measuring out hands of oats. 

One went into the pot, then a second. After that, the witcher hesitated. Yellow eyes met Jaskier’s, the first acknowledgement of the bard’s existence since he’d mounted up and rode off.  
A soft ‘Hmmm’ was all he said, but another two handfuls were taken from the sack to end up in the pot, followed by water.

Elation filled Jaskier at that. If the witcher fed him, it would be the first step toward accepting him as a companion. Shared meals broke tension between strangers, and would mean Geralt wouldn’t be running off or sending Jaskier himself on his way before the meal was done. 

The dinner itself looked to be less than grand. Jaskier had expected the witcher to return with more food after his rummage through his packs, but the only things in his hands were his swords and a spoon. 

The first were placed on the ground, well within reach from the place where Geralt sat beside the fire to stir the pot. As it turned out, a witcher without coin shared his horse’s food, plain oats boiled in water to a runny porridge. 

That sure never made it into the stories about them. The ‘Butcher of Blaviken’, munching on fodder like a common beggar. 

“We could have traded some of that reward of yours for food.” Jaskier said lightly, breaking the silence that had fallen over the night. “Surely the whole ‘not outing them to their enemies’ would be worth a cut of ham or a loaf of bread?” 

“Hmmm.” 

Well that was a surprising answer. 

“Some eggs? Dried fish?” he tried again. 

This time, he wasn’t even graced with an answer at all. 

He tried a few more conversation starters, none of which got an even remotely satisfying result, until it was suddenly Geralt breaking the silence, asking for Jaskier’s bowl. 

“My what?” the bard replied, wondering if it was some sort of code for something else. 

“Your bowl. Unless you want to eat your porridge from the cup of your hands.”

“Where exactly do you think I have a bowl hidden on my person? Right beside the sword, the horse, and the king sized bed perhaps?” 

The incredulous look that was sent his way spoke volumes. Far more so than the “Hmmm.” that accompanied it as the witcher got up and fetched a chipped wooden bowl from his own belongings, scooping half of the porridge into it before handing it over to the bard. 

“You’ll have to sip it. I have only one spoon.” he grunted as he stuck the mentioned utensil in the pot and frowned at the contents. 

Jaskier was hungry enough to sip his gruel from another man’s bowl, would probably have shared a trough with Roach, even if it burned his tongue and was rather tasteless. Even the cheapest inns tended to serve better food than this, and something to wash it down with beside the contents of a leather waterskin that had clearly seen better times. The crusts of bread that had been thrown to his head in Posada would likely have been more appetizing than this.

It did warm him through though, heat radiating from his belly through to his fingertips, working alongside the fire to stop the shivers that had run through his limbs from time to time. The cold of night had come in with a kick after the heat of the day, and his sweaty body was ill prepared for it. He had expected to sleep in a warm and reasonably clean bed, with glass in the window and a fireplace to heat the room if he had coin to fuel it. 

“Thank you.” he said once he had emptied the bowl, picking out the last bits with his fingers and licking them clean.  
The lack of an answer was by now expected, and didn’t really phase him. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t put this in the song. Not quite the heroic happy ending it should have. People don’t like it if the ending isn’t as they expect you know? A lovesong ending in bitterness, a ballad about a champion ending with a cold night and an empty purse...“

“Hmmm.” 

“It could be done as a tragic interlude of course. The depth of need and want between good deeds, riches awaiting the hero who doesn’t abandon his duty.” Words and rhymes were already forming in his mind, dancing around on a slow tune. 

“Heroes don’t get riches. They get honour and get killed.” 

Well look at that, he actually go two whole sentences. Or close enough anyway. Now this was progress.

“You are supposed to get riches right? Witchers don’t work without a contract to ensure they get paid.” 

“Witchers aren’t heroes. We just kill monsters and collect our pay. Nothing more.” 

“What’s the difference but a lack of pretty words? And I am gooooooooooood with pretty words. I’ll have people singing your praises in no time at all.” A good, catchy song could do more for or against a man than a dozen monsters slayed or made. 

“I don’t want people singing my praises.” Apparently disgust could make the witcher’s voice get even grittier than his usual tone.  
“I just want them to pay and leave me be. Alone.”  
The last was said with an intense glare in Jaskier direction, a glare that would make a lesser man shake in his shoes. 

Jaskier had seen the real measure of the man though. The man who gave his opponent the choice to step away and leave upon finding it was no mindless beast, who gave his own pay to those he believed needed it more.  
Witchers might not feel according to legend, this one clearly was not without care or honour. 

He was out of patience though, getting up from the fire, divesting himself of his armour and stacking it upon a fairly flat rock before unfurling a bedroll right next to it. 

“Right, yes, sleep.” Jaskier highly doubted he’d be able to sleep a wink with bare rock as a pillow and the cold air as a blanket, but he’d put on a strong face and bear it like a man. A more rugged, rough-sleeping man than himself anyway. 

Geralt paused in picking up his swords, flashing a quick look in Jaskiers direction. The bard thought for a split second that he’d be wished a good night, but his companion moved on without saying a word, placing the weapons underneath his makeshift bed. 

Jaskier sighed. Geralt was clearly out of supplies and likely out of money. He’d need to go to civilization to get a new contract, that would give Jaskier himself a chance to get some of the essentials. He’d just have to make do until then, cold and hunger not being the worst things that could happen to a man. 

He’d just curled into as tight a ball as he could to preserve what warmth he had when a heavy blanket, drenched in the penetrating stench of horse sweat and old blood, was thrown in his direction. 

Geralt had taken the blanket from Roach’s saddle for him to sleep under. 

‘Yes.’ Jaskier thought as the scent of danger and adventure filled his nostrils. ‘Life will be most inspiring.’


	2. A town like many others

The morning came far too early for Jaskier’s liking. He would have liked to burrow back into his bedding, meagre as it was, but the blanket that had kept him from freezing was ripped from his grasping fingers when he turned over on the hard ground. 

“No no no! Just a few moments more!” he groaned. “Please.” 

“You can sleep all day for all I care. But I need the blanket.” was the growled reply as Geralt walked off, taking most of Jaskier’s warmth with him. 

“Good morning to you too!” the bard called after the mean, evil monster that had stolen his sole bit of comfort.  
The sarcasm seemed to be lost on the witcher though, and Jaskier got up from his nest of rocks and gravel. 

A dozen different aches and pains made their presence known the second he started moving.  
Muscles that had been overworked in the fight and the following walk had frozen stiff, and his entire front felt like a single block of bruising. 

He stumbled his way to the remains of the fire and sat on one of the protruding rocks to wait out the worst of the pain. How did people do this for a living? Geralt was brushing down Roach’s coat as if there was not a pain in his body, every movement fluid and controlled. The horse was munching on the last of the oats, the empty sack on the floor beside them and the rest of the witchers belongings packed up and ready to go. No breakfast then.

“There’s a stream just up ahead if you want to wash.” Geralt said without lifting his eyes from the brush. “It’s too small to bathe, but it’s clean and free of pests.” 

Yeah, like he wanted to get rid of whatever warmth he had, not to mention taking the risk that the witcher would ride off without him. 

“I’ll wait for a proper bath I think.” Jaskier replied. “With water that won’t freeze my tender bits off. But thanks for the tip, that’s…. surprisingly kind.”  
The stream was probably why the witcher had chosen this spot for the night, water being far more important in the grand scheme of things than food or comfort, no matter how much a humble bard may long for both of those. How he’d known where to find it was a mystery. Perhaps he’d traveled this road before, or maybe it was some magical witchery thing, being able to scent out water when they needed it. 

“Hmmm.”

“Where are we going this fine new day?”

“Away.”

“Great plan! Just what I was considering!” 

The blanket that had kept Jaskier warm in the night was folded up carefully before being placed on Roach’s back and covered by saddle and bags. Geralt’s own bedding was rolled up into a tight bundle and tied in it’s own place, safely out of the way.

It was only moments before horse and rider were ready to leave, and Jaskier hurried to join them on the road that stretched ahead of them to disappear between the hills. 

Geralt didn’t mount up when they left, nor did he climb into the saddle for the hour that followed. He walked beside Roach instead, reins hanging loose between horse and man, scratching her behind the ears every now and then.  
Jaskier was walking half a pace behind the witcher. He’d taken his lute in hands fairly soon, forming songs in his head to take his mind off the pangs of hunger in his belly. He hoped they wouldn’t be on the road for too many days like this, or his mood would start to reflect that of his companion.

“How do you know where to go?” he asked, fingers still on the strings.

“I don’t. I just move around until I come across some town with a problem big enough to tolerate a witcher’s presence, or some creature I can kill to sell.” 

“And if you don’t?” 

“I always do.” 

There was little Jaskier could say against that. He sang about made up monsters and creatures of the night, but people easily swallowed his tales because monsters did exist, and plenty of them. He supposed a man like Geralt would indeed be able to sniff them out without much trouble. 

And it turned out to be the truth. They had crossed two tiny clusters of hovels and homes too small to have a name on any map during the day. Neither of those had been overly interesting, apart from the fact that doors had slammed shut as soon as people caught sight of them. 

Jaskier was used to children crying out to him for songs and stories, running towards the man who was so recognizably a bard and therefore a source of rare new adventures to play out later on. They were usually a far more appreciative audience than their parents, even if a large part of his repertoire was aimed at the drunken and mostly male clientele of inns and taverns.  
Now the children cried for real, sobs and screams following them as they moved along the road, grown men spitting on the ground and stroking whatever weapons or tools they had to hand. 

Jaskier wondered what they thought they could do if Geralt suddenly decided to attack them, or plunder their homes. How long would they stand with their rakes and knives against the Butcher of Blaviken? Seconds? Maybe a minute until every man lay dead or dying in the dust of the street?

He cast his eyes towards the man in question. The witcher had covered his head and mounted his horse before approaching the tiny hamlets, well before Jaskier himself had even seen the smoke from their chimneys. He seemed to ignore the townsfolk, and the cats hissing at him from the rooftops and windowsills. The long cloak hid any movements he did make, a still and silent wraith riding along through the lives of the common folk. 

Jaskier had hurried on. H’d disliked the way the people shifted their eyes from the witcher to him, calculating and clearly finding him the easier target between the two strangers. 

Now they stood before a somewhat rickety gate at the end of a solid stone bridge, the main entrance to a real, proper village.  
A real, proper village with a real, proper poster stuck to its gates, promising a very handsome reward to whoever rid the people of the thing that kept dragging horses and cattle into the river on whose edge the village had been build. 

Jaskier, or just about any literate man really, would have read the poster and continued on his way. Not Geralt though. No, he halted, stretched out his arm to take the poster between scarred fingers, and ripped it down from the nails that had kept it flat against the wood. 

“Right.” Jaskier said as the trio of guards that kept an eye on the bridge gave them a frown and made their way over to the pair. “Maybe someone else would have like to read that too?” 

“They don’t need to. I’ll be taking this contract.” 

“Well you explain that to the very friendly looking gentlemen coming over.” he gestured to the guards and the cudgels in their hands. “I’m not sure they agree.” 

“They will.” 

Those words were clearly meant to be heard by the other men too. The threat in those few syllables was enough to make them clutch their weapons and hesitate when they came within biting distance of Roach, the horse’s ears flat against her neck as she lifted her head. 

“You come here for the monster?” one of them asked, ignoring Jaskier completely and looking at the witcher only. 

“Yes.” 

“You know what it is?”

“Hmmm.”

“We can’t very well let you in without any assurance you know what you’re talking about you know. Too many charlatans and fools on the road, here to take our coin without giving anything back.”

“You will.” 

Jaskier didn’t see very well what it was exactly that Geralt did with his hand. He didn’t reach for his swords, either the one on his back or the one safely stuck among his baggage.  
No it was something more subtle, but it clearly worked, for the guards stepped back to allow them to cross the gate without another word before closing it behind them.

“What was that?” Jaskier asked as he hobbled along next to Roach. It wasn’t necessary to stick so close, not with the muddy main street as abandoned as it was, but it felt like there was a suffocating blanket of distrust and worry covering the village. 

“They needed some convincing. I convinced them.” 

Geralt had stuck the poster somewhere in his clothes and dismounted, boots splattering in the sticky reddish mud that already coated Jaskier’s to the ankles. It was a shock to his feet after the miles of dust and rock behind them, the soft squelch of it chilling his toes despite the leather protecting them. 

“Right. Convincing. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, it’s not like they’ll come running after us.”  
He did try to look over his shoulder without the witcher noticing, just to be sure, but the huff of amusement -or contempt but Jaskier wasn’t going to consider that option- made it clear he had failed at that. 

“They won’t risk a confrontation. They’re village folk, used to scaring away beggars and tramps, not to fighting.” 

Jaskier decided not to mention that they did very much look like tramps, and their lack of coin would make them beggars before long if they didn’t manage to earn some proper wages very soon. He supposed Geralt was as aware of that as he himself, and didn’t give a shit.

“I’ll ask around who I need to finalize a contract. Let’s find an inn for information and a stable to leave Roach.” the witcher continued, leading the way deeper into town until they came across a stableyard that apparently met his approval. A large inn stood right next to it, the sign above the door proudly proclaiming the name and the number of years it had been in business. 

A young man, barely old enough to shave but with enough hay in his hair to make up for the lack of whiskers made his eager way towards his customers, greeting them with more enthusiasm than Jaskier had heard in the last few days. 

“You need a place for your horse good sirs?” he said as he approached. “I have fine hay and clean stands, for only a few coppers a day.” He made to take over Roach’s reins, but was stopped by a strong hand around his wrist. 

“I’ll bring her in myself.” was the growled explanation when the lad froze, his hand unmoving in the iron grip that was only released when he gave a frantic nod. 

“No need to scare the man Geralt.” Jaskier admonished. “He’s only doing his job.” The grateful look the stablehand shot him was worth risking an annoyed witcher. If this was how he treated everyone he came across it was no wonder people disliked his presence.

“So am I. So should you. Go and be useful for a change.” was his only reply as the witcher led his horse inside, ignoring both men entirely.

Well, that was that then. Jaskier turned on his heels with a huff, making for the inn’s front door. He’d show him ‘useful’, the nasty bastard. 

The inn was as quiet as the rest of the village had been. A small fire burned low in the main room that made up most of the ground floor, a handful of customers sitting close with drinks in their hands. It was uncharacteristically silent, the few people inside talking in hushed voices.  
It didn’t bode very well for his chances of a room and a meal in exchange for a night of entertainment, but he straightened his clothes and swung his lute into his hands before starting a merry little tune as he walked towards the bar. 

The lady behind it peered at him with narrowed eyes. Jaskier smiled at her, the smile that made maidens swoon and men fume, or occasionally swoon as well.  
She was old, wrinkled and shrunken with age, thin grey hair barely covering her skull. Her expression softened when he started a song though, the corners of her lips turning up. By the end of the sweet ballad, of love lost and found again Jaskier had her smiling, returning his fluid bow with a nod of her head. 

“Why hello dear lady!” he started, taking a seat at one of the worn wooden stools shoved against the bar. “How would you like to have some fine songs and tales this evening to amuse and enthrall your customers?” 

It was maybe half an hour before Geralt came in to find Jaskier tucking into a bowl of good, savoury stew. His charm and talent had gotten him a meal, a room, a bath and the promise of breakfast if his performance was decent enough. 

The bard had his back to the door, chatting about the village and the lack of visitors due to the monster terrorizing travelers that followed the river with the lady who’d introduced herself as Rena. He didn’t see who came in, but he did see the pleasant expression on the woman he’d been speaking with transform into something rather ugly. 

“You are not welcome here witcher! Go take your mutant stench somewhere else!” she cried out as Geralt made his way towards them, halting just a step behind Jaskier. 

“I need information.” was the reply, perfectly even and without emotion. Not a word about the rather impolite greeting, if it could be called that. “This poster. Who had them put up?”  
The witcher had stepped up to the bar beside Jaskier to flatten the paper he’d torn down from the gate upon the scratched wood, and the bard had to admit the man did indeed reek. A mixture of sweat, and horse and death hung around him like a cloud, even if there was currently no smell of onion to be found. The saddlebags that hung over his shoulder only added to the experience with their very own scent of oiled leather and whatever it was that a witcher kept inside them.

“That’d be the mayor wouldn’t it?” she replied, moving off to the door that led to the kitchen. “Go bother him, not an honest innkeep or this kind young man.”  
Jaskier raised his eyebrows when Geralt shot a look between innkeep and bard, the stew in his mouth preventing him from opening it. 

“Hmmm.” 

The witcher was gone before Jaskier had swallowed, the door slamming shut behind him. The bard jumped up and scrambled after him, calling out at the tall form making its way out of the yard towards the street. 

“Geralt! Wait up!” 

Feet that had just gotten accustomed to rest protested against being placed back in the mud, because of course the witcher didn’t wait, striding on as if he hadn’t heard his personal bard at all. 

“Where are we going? The mayor?” 

That got the older man to halt, even if he didn’t bother turning around. 

“We are not going anywhere. You are going inside to finish your food and earn some money. I am going to find the mayor.”

“Well, at least promise me you’ll come back. I can take those bags and put them in my room. We can share right?” 

“You heard the woman. No witchers in her establishment.” 

“She already promised me a room, what’s it to her who I share it with. You can even use the tub if you want to experience what a proper bath is like.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“Aw come on, you know you want to. Come back, have a good night’s rest, and then we’ll find whatever monster is eating people’s horses in the morning.”

This time there was no reply, but Jaskier did get two surprisingly heavy saddlebags thrust into his arms.

“Don’t rummage around in those or I’ll break your fingers.” was all he got before the witcher turned once again and disappeared into the street. 

The key Rena had given him led to a smallish room, sparsely furnished with merely a bed, a chair, and some pegs in the wall. There was no fireplace, but an oil lamp hung from a short chain from the ceiling, ready to be lit. 

The straw in the mattress felt fresh, still crispy with summer’s growth, and the blankets covering it were reasonably clean. It was no feather bed fit for a princess, but it would suffice just fine for a bard without coin.

Jaskier left the bags hanging from one of the pegs, resisting the urge to do exactly that which he’d just been forbidden to do. Who knew what manner of interesting things were in there? What did a witcher bring with him from home when he left for another season of monster hunting?

First things first. He required a bath, and badly. Smelling like a highway thug that hadn’t seen clean water for years was all well and good if your companion stank just as much, he couldn’t very well perform when people shied away from him to escape the stench. 

The inn didn’t have separate bathing rooms for every customer like the more expensive ones had. Instead, there was a single massive room in the cellar, with tubs fitted right next to the well and a massive copper cooking pot steaming above an equally large fire. 

The room didn’t lock, but that didn’t bother Jaskier overly much. He was quite confident and comfortable in his body, thank you very much. He stripped down to the last stitch, once again wishing he had had the coin to bring more clothing than the things he’d worn when leaving Posada. Now the choice was between clean but wet, and risking a rummage through Geralt’s things for something to borrow.  
Not that that would be all that much better. He’d look like a boy wearing his father’s clothes, and leather trousers were very much not his thing. 

He scrubbed his garments as well as he could. There was a bowl of coarse soap, unscented and unpleasant between his fingers but good enough at removing the smells of the road from wool and linen. 

He dunked himself in the tub once his clothes had been wrung out and hung dripping from the sturdy lines that crossed the room, too lazy to refill the tub with new water. He’d take a proper bath before bed. 

It was some hours later that Jaskier spied Geralt coming back in, boots caked in mud and hood drawn deep over his eyes.  
Word had spread that a bard had come to town, and the common room was better filled than it had been when they had first entered the inn. Men and women alike were drinking, dice rattled against tables and a game of gwent was going on in a corner.

The people had clearly been longing for something to lift their worries for a while. Applause was heard between songs, and requests were uttered and rewarded with coins when he filled them. He’d be able to buy some things to prepare for the road when they left town if the night went on like it had until now. 

Either the ale and spirits dulled the people’s senses, or they didn’t dislike witchers as much as the innkeep did. Geralt disappeared from Jaskier’s view as he chose a seat in the corner furthest from the fire and the people around it, staying there until the last straggler was dragged home by his wife and the innkeep had accepted some of Jaskiers newly earned coin in exchange of a good meal and a flagon of ale to bring up to his room. The woman was clearly eager to be off to bed, locking the door and wishing the bard a good night before he’d even set a foot in the direction of the stairs that led up to the rooms.  
All the better, as that meant he could sneak his grumpy muse up with him without any trouble. 

Geralt was silent as they entered the tiny room, sniffing the air before checking every corner of the admittedly small space while Jaskier place plate and flagon on the floor. 

“Hmmm.”

“Not to your liking?” Jaskier asked as he hung his lute next to the witchers bags. “I suppose it’s not quite the luxury I’d have liked, but the bathwater is warm and the bed is clean.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“Mentioning baths… I’m freezing in these. Any chance I can borrow something dry so I can get myself properly clean and somewhat comfortable? Just for the night, so my clothes can get a bit less… soggy.” He added his most charming smile, the one that had melted Rena of the evil eye, and it even seemed to be working on the Butcher of Blaviken as the witcher went to his bags and dug op a neatly folded tunic and some rolled up trousers, followed by socks and smallclothes. 

“Just the shirt will be fine.” Jaskier said with a grateful grin, snatching the garment up. 

“Good. For I’m taking the rest.”

Oh. Right, of course the witcher needed a good wash even more badly than Jaskier himself. He just hoped there’d be enough warmed water left at this time of the night, as he doubted the innkeep would have refilled the supply above the fire. 

He led his silent companion back down the stairs, out into the bathing room he’d used some hours before.  
The fire underneath the massive kettle had died down to embers, but there were lamps along the walls waiting for a spark to light them, and there was just about enough water left for the both of them to have at least a lukewarm bath. 

Jaskier claimed the same tub he’d used before, tossing his clothes over the lines he’d only taken them from a few hours ago and stepping over the dented edge to sink his chilled body into the water, dunking his head down and scrubbing at his hair until his lungs ran out of air.  
He came up sputtering, wiping the water out of his eyes with a groan of enjoyment. 

“Oh man, I can actually feel my toes again.” he said, casting a look over at his companion, hair plastered to his face. 

Geralt wasn’t quite as quick as Jaskier himself. He’d just folded his soiled clothing into a neat pile, boots beside it, and propped up his swords against the side of his own bath. 

It wasn’t the pair of swords that drew Jaskiers interest though. Nor was it the fact that he was now sharing a bathroom with of of the few man in the world that might just make him doubt his own masculinity.  
No, it was the mass of bruising on the witcher’s chest and abdomen, a perfectly nice match to Jaskiers own. 

“Oh wow. I didn’t actually think you were capable of getting hurt.” he said without thinking. “What with the number of punches those elves gave you in the face without marring that rugged handsomeness.” 

“Hmm.” 

“What did that? Pissed something off before Posada?”

“That thieving son of a goat.” Geralt replied as he sank down into the bath, scooping up a handful of the nasty soap and scrubbing it into his hair. 

“Sent me flying like a bird.” It was said without emotion, and was followed by the witcher bending over to rinse the filthy suds away. 

Jaskier gaped. “The Sylvan?! That tiny little bugger?” A grin formed on his face, and he gathered his breath so he could break out in song as soon as Geralt came up to hear it, the words flowing without thought.

“As he sought out the devil, all set for killing or dying,  
the witcher ran across... a bit of bad luck,  
Geralt of Rivia, oh he was sent flying,  
by a half grown damned bastard of an ill-tempered buck...”

He was suddenly very glad their baths were too far apart for Geralt to reach him, for the glare that was shot in his direction from between strings of of dripping white hair made him fear slightly for life and limb.

“Do not even consider letting those words leave your mouth again if you want to keep your tongue inside it.” 

“Right. Yes. No, no, no, I mean no, I won’t. No words of any such kind leaving my mouth ever again. No sir!” He mimed turning a key in a lock before his lips and then grinned, waiting in silence for the witcher to finish his washing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please let me know of any errors in spelling or grammar, or tell me what did or didn't work. :)


	3. Rivers of surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a bit of action going on.

The morning sun woke Jaskier with a start, his very pleasant dream of playing for a _very_ interested audience of ladies roughly replaced with a cold room and an empty bed. 

He sniffed and rolled over, burying his face in the mattress to block out the world for a bit longer. Breakfast could wait, as could silly things like working and adventuring.  
If only that annoying rasping sound would stop bothering him. 

He tried to ignore it at first, then covered his head with the blanket. When the sound proved more than able to pierce through the wool he huffed and sat up, ready to throw whatever was making the noise out of the room so he could sleep a hole into the morning in peace. 

What he actually did was blink, blink again, and say ‘Good morning’ to the witcher that sat in the only chair in the room, calmly sharpening a sword with those weird eyes fixed on his roommate. 

“You sleep very loudly.” Geralt said in lieu of a normal person’s greeting. 

“Yes thank you, I slept very well indeed. I hope I didn’t wake you?”  
Sarcasm was Jaskier’s coping mechanism at any time of day, even if his brain hadn’t managed to catch up with the waking world. He supposed offering to share his hard-earned bed with the witcher would grant him some protection if his mouth ran away from him too badly. 

“No.” 

“Right. Well, if my very loud sleeping was bothering you so badly whilst you were already awake, you could have just, I don’t know… Gone downstairs or… Do anything other than stare at me? Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m prime staring material, but uh… Slightly creepy you know?” 

“You are wearing my dry shirt.”

Oh. Yes of course, that’s why the witcher was displaying his rather magnificent physique like that. His physique that was a surprising patchwork of yellows and greens in the early morning light, pale skin and colourless hair doing nothing to hide the colouration. 

“Well that’s not fair.” Jaskier said, squinting at the fading bruises and lifting the well-worn garment from his own belly, revealing his own impressive collection of shades of purple and blue that hadn’t much changed since the day before. 

“Life isn’t fair. Now get going.” 

The words were accompanied by a final rasp of the whetstone along the blade, the silver one if Jaskier wasn’t mistaken, after which the witcher tucked the tools of his trade away from where they’d come. 

“Do I detect an invitation there, good witcher?” Jaskier said, suddenly eager to get up and about, pulling on his trousers even before he’d properly left the bed. “A desire for my delightful company on your hunt?”  
He took off the too-large tunic he’d slept in but held it behind his back when the witcher reached for it. 

“Nah ah ah! Say you’ll take me along or this poor, _poor_ linen hostage will meet a very sad ending.” 

There was a flash of _something_ in Geralt’s eyes at those words, something Jaskier hadn’t seen since he’d called out the witcher’s infamous nickname and got punched in the gut for it.  
His mind grasped for something, anything to lessen the impact of them, to bend the words to the joke they had been meant to be, even if he wasn’t quite sure what he’d said wrong. 

“It might end up in my bed again, and who knows what’ll happen there?” 

When in doubt, allude to sex. It worked with most men who didn’t happen to be irate husbands or fathers, hopefully it would work on witchers too. 

“Hmmm.”

Yellow eyes took him in, unfastened trousers and balled up shirt and all. And as swiftly as that flash of anger, or hurt, or whatever it had been had come, it was gone again, the witcher’s face impassive once again.

“ You can come to carry my things. I’m not risking Roach.” 

And apparently that was all that would be said. They dressed, Geralt selected some things from his panniers to tuck into the sack that had held their oats, and off they went. 

The town was once again quiet when they stepped out into the streets. The innkeep hadn’t been around, but the young lad that had manned the stable had provided them with a satisfying breakfast, even if Geralt barely gave Jaskier the time to enjoy it.  
No matter. A bellyache from eating too fast would be great company for his painful bruises and sore feet. Sore feet that got sucked down into the sludge that hadn’t dried during the night. 

“What’s with this infernal mud?” Jaskier muttered, pulling a foot out of a particularly deep spot with a wet squelch. “I’d never thought I’d say it, but I miss the sharp rocks and itchy dust from yesterday.” He ran a few paces to catch up with Geralt, spattering the reddish muck up to his knees.

“So does everyone here I reckon.” the witcher answered. “This damp is not natural. It hasn’t rained for weeks.” 

Suddenly the mud that had only a moment ago been just an annoyance took on a whole new level of sinister. 

“Evil, cattle-eating mud?” Jaskier suggest as he watched his left foot disappear into the muck down to his ankle. “Not sure a silver sword is going to do much against that.” 

“Hmmm.” 

Back to single syllable words apparently. If ‘Hmmm’ could be counted as a word. It was more of a sound, not something that would easily fit into lyrics. That would take some poetic licence then. 

The guards on the bridge were not the same crew as the day before. They did seem to expect Jaskier and his witcher though, as the gate was swung open even before they said anything. It looked even more rickety now than it had when they came in, the wood splintered and rotting away at the lower edges. This town clearly wasn’t used to danger, not with this amount of neglect on display. 

“Where are we going?” He asked once the gate had closed behind them and they were crossing the bridge. 

“We’ll follow the river upstream first. See if we can find traces. Something big enough to take horses or cattle has to leave some evidence behind.”

“Do you have any idea what it is? You picked the silver, so you’re guessing monster, not man?” Jaskier knew this, because he was the one carrying the other, heavier sword around in his arms instead of his lute, along with whatever else it was Geralt believed he couldn’t go without but didn’t bother telling his personal bard about. 

“I think so. But it should not be this close to civilisation.”

“Something shy then? Shy but big enough to grab a horse and cart and drag it down into the water?” 

“A kappa. They usually prefer quieter places to hunt, bridges or fords across rivers, ponds near roads…” 

So much for peaceful settings for romantic trysts on the road. Jaskier would now never again be able to pick nice quiet spots at the waterside without thinking about shy, horse-murdering monsters lurking just beneath the surface. That would take the fun out completely. 

“Are those common?” He asked, wondering if it was pure luck he hadn’t already ended up in a watery grave beneath the lily pads with one of his many lovers. 

“No. They are easy enough to kill and easy to avoid once you know their hunting grounds. They don’t like moving over dry ground or far from their body of water.”

Easy to kill sounded good. Very good even. Jaskier could add some embellishments if needed, add some wicked claws or increase the size of the monster a bit in his recording of this adventure. No need to put his pretty arse in more danger than necessary. 

They walked on in silence after that, or at least without any proper conversation.  
Jaskier tried, he really did, but silence just wasn’t his thing. He needed to speak, or sing, or compose… Whistle even, if that was all he could get away with. 

So it was that he was listing all words he could think of that would rhyme with ‘kappa’ under his breath when Geralt suddenly crouched down to touch the damp earth beneath him. 

Great ruts had been dragged into the earth, churned soil and tufts of uprooted grass showing a clear track from the road down towards the river.  
It was only now, with the witcher kneeling down, that Jaskier noticed there was no mud here. Yes, there was mouldy leaf litter and a layer of silt left by the river over the years covering the rocky ground, but no mud sucking at their feet and knees, nothing more than what should be at a water’s edge naturally. 

“This is old.” the witcher said, following the ruts with his fingers and sniffing the air like a beast. “Days old.” 

He rooted around in the soil, rubbing it between his fingers and even tasting it with the tip of his tongue before spitting it out again. 

“No blood. Not in the amounts you’d expect if a horse was slaughtered here.” 

They moved on after that, following the road when they could and staying to the water’s edge when they needed to.  
The sun had finished most of her journey through the sky by the time Geralt found something worth his attention again, blood that hadn’t yet turned to black on the grass, crispy after a day in the sun’s heat. 

“Deer.” was the witcher’s conclusion after another careful taste of something no man should put in his mouth, and Jaskier had to bite his own tongue to keep from asking how he could possibly know, and what he’d have done if it had turned out to be something more sinister. Did witchers get food poisoning? What if it had been monster blood? Or human if some poor unfortunate soul had met the end Jaskier had envisioned for himself not more than a few hours ago?

“Stay away from the water.” Geralt said, back on his feet and frowning at the river. “They are easy enough to fight on land, they can’t move quickly or risk emptying their dish. Get into the water and you’re dead long before I can get you back up.” 

“Their….. dish? They run around dragging people to their watery deaths all the while carrying dishes?” Jaskier could just see it in his mind’s eye, a great hulking monster, dragging him by the ankle but being very careful not to spill whatever it was carrying.  
“Dishes of what? Some nice stewed horse with a side of secret lover?” 

“Water. A dish of water. And it’s in their head, not in their hands. They need their hands to strangle you.”

“Right. Sure. I’ll be up here then, waiting for you to… ehr… Empty it’s dish then?” He waved vaguely at the road, some twenty paces from the river. 

“Hmm.” 

It was a game of waiting after that. Jaskier spent that time sitting on a conveniently placed if not altogether comfortable stump of wood, watching Geralt choose a long stick before stomping right into the river, wading in knee-deep before stopping and holding out the length of wood, looking like some very stupid and suicidal fisherman. 

The shadows lengthened. The sun left the horizon and was replaced by the moon, her pale light painting the scene in cool tones of blue and grey. It made for a good setting in a song, very creepy, especially combined with the wisps of fog rising from the water, but it was not a very good setting for a bard.  
He was stiff and sore, his legs cramping and his arse numb. The cold had come swift on the moon’s heels, and Jaskier wondered if Geralt was just very patient or frozen in place. 

Of course, the moment he contemplated that was the moment the kappa struck. 

One second the witcher had stood in the river like a fool, the next he sprung into motion, tossing aside the fake fishing rod and drawing his sword.  
The silver glinted in the moonlight, flashing brightly as Geralt struck at something between his feet. 

Water splashed up, the sound of it falling back eerily loud in the silence of the night. It was followed by a grunt and another splash, the sword flicking down again, striking at something Jaskier still couldn’t see. 

That wouldn’t do at all. How could he memorize this moment in song if he couldn’t see what happened? He needed the monster’s actions as much as he needed Geralts. He needed its shrieks, its bared teeth, its smell… 

The bard got up, cursing the feeling of pins and needles in his legs and feet as blood started flowing properly again. He grabbed for the sack and the sword he’d been lugging around all day and took a few steps towards the river. ‘Just a few’ he thought, ‘just close enough to see.’

Closer by, he could see the water churning around Geralt’s legs as if there was a battle raging on under water. He seemed to be struggling to keep upright, using his arms and upper body to balance as the kappa tried to drag him deeper into the river. Another strike of the sword almost caused him to topple over backwards and was accompanied with a grunt of pain as the kappa managed to get him down to a knee.

“Why won’t you fucking die already!” 

Another stab that didn’t seem to hit it’s mark and just like that, in the blink of the eye, the witcher went under. 

Fear grabbed Jaskier’s heart. Whatever had happened to kappas being easy to kill and not getting in the water with them? 

He was running before he knew he had started moving his feet. 

“Geralt!” he cried. “Geralt!” 

The fact that he was anxiously staring at the place the witcher had disappeared from was probably the only thing that saved him. A silver sword came flying from the river, thrown by a hand that went under immediately after. Jaskier ducked, hearing the swoosh as the thing sailed right over his head to land with a high ‘ping’ against the side of the road. 

A white haired head came up from the water when the bard had his eyes on the battle again, gasping for breath before disappearing beneath the surface again. Another, dark and bald with luminous eyes came into view just once or twice, mouth opened and screeching with anger before plunging back down. 

Jaskier was near the water’s edge when the kappa came flying over his head much as the sword had done.  
It was followed by a very pissed off looking witcher, teeth bared and eyes flashing, the yellow of his irises the the only visible colour in the night.  
There was a rock clutched in Geralt’s fist as he strode out of the river, the water flowing off him forming a trail of puddles as he made his way towards the kappa. 

The creature hadn’t been meekly waiting for death though. It seemed to have taken little damage by it’s short journey by air, and screamed as it met Geralt head on. 

Oh this was it. This was what Jaskier had hoped for when he decided that following the Butcher around was a grand idea. 

He’d never seen a proper battle before. Drunken brawls in taverns, games of boxing in the streets and back rooms, sure. But not this dance of death, where both participants seemed very keen on ending the other’s existence. 

The kappa was fast, faster than Jaskier would have expected with the little snippets of information he’d managed to wheedle out of Geralt as they waited. Nor did it seem to have any problems with getting up again after being pummeled in the face by a rock with a witcher’s full strength behind it. 

The two kept their dance going, teeth against rock, fist against grasping fingers. Grunts of pain came from both as blows landed or either one or the other managed to wrestle his opponent against the ground. 

It was during one of those very short lulls in the battle, when Geralt was straddled by the kappa with its hands on his throat like some demented lover, that Jaskier realized that ‘The steel! Give me the steel!’ was not some sort of witchery code for ‘die you fucker’ but an order to him. 

Right. The steel. The sword he’d carried around because Geralt had expected to encounter a monster but didn’t want to be almost weaponless if they happened to come across less monstrous opponents during their search. 

He drew the weapon from its sheath, dropping both it and the sack he’d been clutching, and tried to think of a way to get the thing to the witcher without having to go through the kappa first. 

It seemed like Geralt trusted his aim more than he himself did though. The witcher dropped the rock he’d been using to bash against the thing covering the kappa’s head, giving the monster an opening to lean in but also gaining a free hand to catch a weapon that might just be thrown in the right direction. 

It went reasonably well. The sword didn’t land into the witcher’s hand like it probably would in the song Jaskier’d be composing as soon as this battle was finished. It did however land somewhere in the vicinity, and was close enough for Geralt to grab as he rolled the kappa and himself over, leaping to his feet and swinging the weapon in a single fluid move. 

The steel gave a much more satisfying ‘clang’ upon impact than the silver or rock had done, the blade flashing like a streak of moonlight almost too fast to see. 

After that, it seemed like the tables had turned. The kappa could no longer get in close enough to bite or throttle without feeling the kiss of steel against its skin, and even though the hits didn’t seem to do all that much damage, it suddenly made a break for it, dashing away from the fight and fleeing for the river. 

Geralt made to pursue, running after the creature with a great, angered growl, but the thing had gone, disappearing beneath the dark surface that smoothed over immediately. 

The river kept flowing, the soft rushing sound deceptively peaceful as silence fell once again.


	4. friends and failure

Jaskier walked in a strange haze of jittery energy and utter exhaustion as the pale, colourless light that came before sunrise started to give shape to the world around him. 

There wasn’t a muscle in his body that wasn’t complaining, twitching and burning with every step he took. There was a rhythmic pounding behind his eyes that made him wish for a knife just to let it out, no matter what the cost. His feet were more blister than skin and he feared what they would look like once they got back to the inn where he could take off his boots.  
The fact that his socks felt soaked despite the fact that he hadn’t been in the water promised a visit to a healer if he had the coin for it. Feet were notorious for getting infected if left to fester, and he was fairly certain that the sticky fluid that gathered between his toes was blood. 

Geralt had set a punishing pace on their return journey back to the village, long legs eating up the miles they had spend hours on whilst searching for signs of the kappa.  
Jaskier had thought their walk from Posada had been hard, but as it turned out, the witcher had slowed down considerably to accommodate him if this was his normal speed. 

It seemed to do wonders for Geralt’s mood though.  
The frustration and anger at a failed hunt had roiled about him like a dark cloud in the first hour or so, Jaskier’s babble and questions answered only with barest hints of replies, most of those of the ‘Hmmm’ variety. 

As time went on, the answers went from almost silent monosibylics to several words strung together to form sentences, which Jaskier took as a great achievement both as a professional and as a friend-to-be. 

It turned out that kappas were occasionally captured by humans, trapped and locked up until they gave their loyalty in exchange for their lives. It was the only reason Geralt could think of that would explain the entirely unexpected addition of armour on the creature. Their kind didn’t wear clothing or ornamentation, least of all the heavy, rusted steel that had covered most of its body. 

“But if it had an owner, why would it be harassing people?” Jaskier wondered out loud once he’d mulled it over.  
“What’s the point? It gets you a dead pet kappa, and I suddenly don’t mind snakecharmers and their cobras quite as much anymore ‘cause this is a whole other level of disturbing and wrong, but well… Why?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe its owner died. Maybe it repaid its debt of life in some way. Maybe it is owned by some sick motherfucker.” 

Jaskier supposed there were plenty of sick motherfuckers around in the world. People who enjoyed causing pain, folks who got off on the taste of fear in the air. Hell, most of his fellow human beings would probably put the witcher he was following around firmly into that category, even if the bard didn’t believe that to be right.  
Yes, he’d seen the lust for battle that ran in the man’s veins like blood this night, but he highly doubted it was a desire to cause fear and pain that made the witcher tick. Violence was a means to an end, not the end itself.

Speaking of blood… The sun had finally lost enough of her shyness to peek over the tops of the mountains, light flooding the valley they were crossing, bringing birdsong and colour along with it.  
Colour like the bright red that covered half of the witcher’s head.

“What is that?! Geralt, why are you walking around like a badly slaughtered pig? Fuck! Alright, yes. First things first. You should sit down before you fall down. Are you bleeding to death? Do witchers even bleed to death? What can I do?” Half a dozen other questions flowed from the bard’s mouth as he grabbed the witcher by the arm in an attempt to make him stop, nearly losing his balance when the taller man actually did, making half a turn to look back at him. 

“We do.” he said in a perfectly even voice, eyebrows raised in something that most resembled amusement. “Very slowly. And you can not do anything until we are back at the inn.” 

Jaskier found that very hard to believe. The witcher’s hair was a filthy tangle of clumps and half-dried clots, fresh blood seeping from a wound on the side of his head. And now that he could actually see more than the man’s backside, his own pains and aches were suddenly forgotten. 

Geralt’s face was a mess. Dark tears littered the pale skin of his jaws and chin, the flesh already swelling and seeping foulness and blood. His throat and neck were even worse, the rivulets of red fluid slowly dripping down over his armour from the wounds the kappa must have left when trying to strangle the witcher into submission. 

“ _That_ doesn’t look like something a wash and a towel can help...” Jaskier said, mouth still running while he was staring at the witcher’s face, babbling on about soap, disinfectants, and healers who might be willing to work for a promise of payment after the kappa’s death if they left Roach or his lute as insurance. 

“Hmmm. Just keep walking. The guards should be at the gate by now.” 

And just like that, Geralt moved on, following the road that would bring them back to the village. 

It was another hour at least until they crossed the now familiar bridge and gate once again. Jaskier had started noticing a limp in the witcher’s gait once he’d known to look for signs of injury, a slight favouring of the left leg even if they hadn’t lost any speed. 

The guards stared at the pair of them, running their eyes over the bloody mess that was Geralt, and then Jaskier’s own dirtied bardic finery, and let them through without a word. They’d probably be feeding the rumour-mill as soon as the subjects of said rumours were out of earshot, but right now, they didn’t seem overly willing to cross the pair of them. 

The inn was mercifully close. The mud, the infernal, blasted, sticky mud sucked at their feet as they crossed the stableyard and entered the building, Jaskier rushing through the door first to make his way to the bar. 

He was just in time to find Rena back in her place behind it, and see the expression on her face shift from worry, to dislike, and then manic glee in the blink of an eye as she saw them enter. 

“I’d like the use of a room and your baths for another night please.” He said hurriedly, looking over his shoulder to see Geralt leaning against a wall and staring back at him with narrowed eyes.  
He grabbed for the drawstring bag of money he kept beneath his doublet, throwing most of the pitiful amount he’d gathered with his performance the night before last at the aged wood of the bar. Getting a proper bath, with boiled water and clean buckets was more important than a blanket for the road. There’d be little adventuring to be done if the witcher he had chosen as his muse died of infection. 

He felt rather than heard Geralt following him down the steps to the bathing chamber, the cavernous room already filled with steam. The floor was wet with warm water, a tub freshly scrubbed after use, the lamps along the walls lit and casting their bright light across the pair of them. 

“Well. Off with it then.” Jaskier said as he felt the water from the floor seeping in through the leather soles of his boots. “I’ll get a few buckets of nice hot water.” 

The witcher answered with a grunt only, but did seem to obey, tugging the boot off of one foot with help of the other.  
Jaskier busied himself with filling buckets from the pot above the fire, thinking out loud about healers as side characters in epic quests and the heroic song he’d make this into, ‘the witcher who gave his beauty for the cause’. 

Geralt hadn’t gotten very far when the bard dumped the buckets in front of his feet, only his lower body unclothed and showing an alarming amount of red that couldn’t have come from his head or neck. He seemed to be struggling with the fastenings of his armour, growling and grumbling until he stretched out his arm toward Jaskier.

“The buckles please.” 

Jaskier forced a big grin on his face, reaching for the fastenings that were causing trouble. “Was that an actual ‘please’ I heard there or are my ears…”

The grin fell. “Oh. Oh my.” 

Turned out it weren’t the buckles forming a problem, but the witcher’s hands. They were torn to the bone and tendons, flashes of white shining wetly in the lamplight between blood and shredded skin. 

The bard worried for a moment that he would throw up, might have done if there had been anything in his stomach. Instead, he unstrapped the bracer, lifting the leather up and away from the mangled appendage below it.  
It dropped to the floor with a dull ‘thump’, only to be followed by its fellows, bits and pieces of gear and clothing getting dumped unceremoniously until the witcher was naked as the day he was born. 

“Throw that bucket over my head would you?” the witcher ground out as he pointed at one of the steaming vessels. “Just to get the worst off.” 

Jaskier picked it up, standing on the tips of his aching toes as Geralt bend his neck to allow the water to hit his head. Clots and crusts came loose in the deluge, rushing off along with the water, down the drain in the floor to the grate in the corner where it disappeared towards the river. 

It was the work of minutes to set up one of the tubs next. Jaskier filled it to the brim, shooing the witcher away when he tried to take the buckets.  
“You sit and soak and stay alive please.” he said, sweat pouring off him despite his soaked clothing. “I can manage some buckets.”  
The exhaustion was clawing at his arms and legs, filling them with lead, but he kept them coming, one after the other until the witcher’s hair was its own colourless white again and the man ordered him to get into a bath himself before he fell over. 

They soaked for a good long while. The scent of blood hung thick in the air and the hot water burned his feet something awful, but the heat did wonders for sore muscles and Jaskier almost nodded off despite his worry. 

He jerked awake again with a snort, water spraying from his nose where it had just started its trek to his throat as he coughed and sputtered. 

“I’ll take that as our cue to go to our room.” 

If the situation had been any different, if it hadn’t been Geralt of Rivia, the bard would have sworn there was a strong hint of amusement in the witcher’s tone and the raised eyebrow that accompanied it. 

“It stinks of kappa here anyway.” 

Their second half-naked trek up the stairs to the room Jaskier had rented was less successful than the first.  
There were other customers this time, traders and travelers who’d stayed at the inn, looking up from the creaking steps to watch Jaskier hobbling along on his painful feet. He couldn’t bear the thought of putting his boots back on, so he carried them in his hands, along with most of his clothes, leaving him covered in just enough fabric to be somewhat decent.  
Their eyes then went to the hulk of a man following him, staring at the bundle of swords, damaged armour and filthy clothes in his arms before meeting the witcher’s gaze and quickly hurrying along, no doubt suddenly remembering they had some very good reason not to be on the stairs right this moment.

Their room was exactly as they had left it. Panniers and lute hanging side by side from their pegs, the witcher’s washed clothes drying on the back of the chair, the bed unmade.  
It seemed like ages since Jaskier had jumped out of it to worm his way into slightly damp trousers, eager to follow his muse on something that should have been a fairly simple and straightforward hunt, leaving the sheets rumpled in his haste. 

He heard Geralt drop his clothes in the corner, leaving the swords to stand against the wall beneath his bags, well within reach of the chair he then slumped down in. 

“There’s a small wooden chest in that sack you’ve been carrying around.” the man said as Jaskier dumped his own things in a corner of their own. No need to smear blood and filth on them any more than there was already by leaving them in a shared heap with the witcher’s stuff. Blood was almost impossible to get out of the very fine linen of his jacket, and he wouldn’t have the coin to have a new one made any time soon. 

“Right. Just a second though. I take it this does not count for the ‘breaking my fingers’ thing? Because I really like my fingers just as they are, all functional and moving and everything else yours are not at this moment.” 

A grunted ‘Hmmm’ that could mean anything from ‘Sure’ to ‘I will break them clean off the second I get the chance’ was all the response he got, but Jaskier saw himself as an optimistic man, so he opened the sack and started rummaging around. 

“Knife. Other knife. Waterskin. Something squishy I really don’t want to know… Oh, Some very nice chain, kinky that, didn’t think you had it in you but I guess I should have known…” His fingers closed around a square edge, solid wood and metal hinges. “Ah, this one?” He pulled it out, holding up a simple box of dark wood, heavier in his hand than it looked and clinking very faintly when he shook it. 

“Yes. Get it over here.” 

Jaskier decided that they would have to have a conversation about ordering friends around like dogs at some point, but he supposed that could wait till a moment they weren’t both dead on their feet so he simply placed the chest on Geralt’s lap, noticing that the bite in his thigh had started bleeding again and was seeping a big patch of red into his smallclothes. 

“What’s in it?” He asked as the witcher opened the lid, leaning over to get a good look inside in case he wouldn’t get an answer again. Rows of tiny glass vials in maybe a dozen different shapes, each in their own little grass-lined compartment, were revealed. 

“Potions.” 

Geralt picked one from somewhere in the middle, giving it a shake before pulling out the tiny cork and glancing over at Jaskier, yellow eyes catching his gaze and keeping it. 

“Don’t ever mess with these bard. Most will kill a normal human quickly and painfully, and most of the ones that won’t _will_ make your day very unpleasant. _Never_ touch any of them without permission.” 

“Sure. No touching the tiny glass bottles, on pain of death. Or pain of pain, I suppose. Never mind, what does that -” He pointed at the one currently in the witcher’s hand, “actually do?” 

“It’s a witcher’s elixir. It will cure any infection that has already set in and aid healing. One of the few you could use without adverse effects.” 

The witcher carefully tipped it over the place in his thigh where the kappa had set its teeth deeply into the muscle. Just a few drops passed the lip of the bottle to land on the wound, foaming and smoking on contact. 

“That’s the safe one?!” Jaskier said as he watched the potion work its magic, looking for all the world like it caused the blood that had been seeping slowly to come to a boil as soon as the two fluids touched. He almost flinched back when the vial was pushed into his hand.

“Pour it on my face and throat will you? I’d spill half of it if I do it myself.”

“Ehr… sure. Does it feel the way it looks?” 

“Foamy?” 

“Boiling.” 

“No.” 

“Alright then. Tip your head back, as far as you can so I can get to your throat first.” 

The elixir made Geralt look like a child that had tried cooking his father’s shaving soap before putting it on, foam and smoke rising to obscure his face. Jaskier finished with his hands, the ragged edges of the cuts there looking more worrisome for a swordsman than the wounds in the witcher’s face. A bard had to look pretty to get a crowd’s attention, a fighter needed a strong grip and prettiness be damned. 

“Is the vial empty?” Geralt asked with his eyes closed and brow furrowed. 

“No, there’s a bit left. A third maybe?” 

“Good. Stopper it and put it back, then get me one of the round green ones before you go to bed.” 

Bed. Bed would be awesome right now. Jaskier pushed the requested flask in the witcher’s hand, then flopped down on the sheets. Gods, how his body hurt. He supposed he should get beneath the blankets, but the thought of getting up again to manoeuvre himself between the sheets was too great a task. There was no way he was going to be moving before a good few hours of blessed unconsciousness. 

“Good night.” he mumbled into the silence of the room, listening to the faint sounds of the town beyond their window. He was already drifting off when he heard the soft… “Sleep well.” that came from the corner of the room in answer.

His dozing was disturbed some time later, when the straw mattress dipped down somewhere near his feet. 

“Geralt?” 

“Hush. I’m just taking a look at your feet.” 

The order to be silent was easy to follow for once in his life. He stayed flat on his belly as the witcher carefully lifted his feet one after the other, examining them with gentle hands. 

Jaskier could have sunk down into some very pleasant dreams that way, with warm fingers against his ankle and a palm against the instep, if that hadn’t been the moment Geralt proved himself a liar, pouring the remaining elixir over the badly damaged soles of the bard’s feet.  
Drops of pure, liquid fire, seeming to burn away his nerves in a flash of hot, excruciating pain, despite the ‘no’ when Jaskier had asked about it. 

The “Gods dammit witcher!” he shouted at the top of his voice was probably heard by at least half the village.


	5. Beginning's end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. My first attempt at posting something, and my first finished story. 
> 
> I'd like to thank each and every one of you who took the time to comment or even press 'kudos'. I never realized how valuable and encouraging a few words from complete strangers could be. So thank you, for coming along on this ride with me. :)

The room was pitch black when Jaskier awoke. He had no idea what time it was, only that his bladder was very insistent that he should get up and to the privy if he didn’t want to wet the bed like a child.  
He groaned, unwilling to move and trigger the pain that was just simmering beneath the surface right now. Geralt’s snores hitched a bit at the sound, then resumed at their previous slow intervals.   
“And he says I sleep loudly.” Jaskier muttered as he forced himself to get up, trying not to jostle the witcher that slept curled up like a bloody big cat at the foot end of the bed. 

He carefully placed his feet on the cold wooden floorboards, ready for the blisters to make themselves known again in all their horrid glory. To his great surprise however, there was only a quick flash of sharp pain when he first put his weight on them, petering out to a dull ache after the few steps it took him to reach the door.   
“Healing aid indeed.” he muttered quietly, thinking he might just have to thank the witcher for the torture he’d inflicted on his poor feet.

The oil lamp was burning low when Jaskier returned from his trip down the hall to the smelliest of rooms the inn had to offer, its light almost blinding after the darkness his eyes were used to. He squinted to see Geralt, dressed already, examining his sword. 

“I guess I did wake you this time eh?” 

“Hmmm.” 

“Serves you right for lying. But thanks anyway, my feet are much better.”   
He sat down on the bed to wiggle his toes to proof it, even though the witcher’s attention was focused on the damage the weapon in his hands had taken in last night’s fight. While silver was fine against skin and flesh, it clearly didn’t hold up that well against the steel armour it had been repeatedly smashed into this time. 

“Hmmm.” 

“So. What are we going to do now? Try again? Dredge the river to catch it? Run for the hills?”  
A glare was the only response he got, and even that probably only because Geralt happened to look in his general direction as he walked to his bags to fish out a tiny jewelers anvil and an even tinier hammer.   
The bard threw a big smile back, just because he could, barely managing to keep from sticking out his tongue when the man’s back was turned.   
“No don’t worry, I know you’re not going to run, that wouldn’t do at all as an ending to this adventure. How about…” 

“The bathing room stank of kappa.” 

Jaskier gaped for a second, torn between surprise at being interrupted with actual words and utter confusion about the words themselves, watching the witcher sit down on the floor to start hammering out the burrs and blunted edges with light, practiced taps of steel on silver.

“Yes, you said that already this morning. It might have had something to do with your presence there. Hate to break it to you my dear brute of a witcher, but wrestling with slimy river monsters tends to leave people a bit smelly.” 

“ _Before_ we came in. It had been used, it should have smelled of human and soap.”

“Right. Apart from the fact that I don’t know how you can smell ‘human’ in a room, nor do I _want_ to know... How? I’d think we would have noticed a kappa passing us on the stai…. Fuck.”   
Suddenly it made sense. One didn’t need to use the stairs to get to the baths, not if breathing under water wasn’t a problem. 

“So what? We flush it out? Confront Rena about the dirty little secret hiding in her cellar? Call the town guard?”

That last suggestion was met with a derisive snort that said more than a dozen words could. 

“Yeah, no, I agree, they’d probably be a bit useless I suppose. The point still stands though. What _are_ you going to do? The last attempt to kill it didn’t go all that well if I am to be perfectly honest.” 

“Hmmm. We’ll wait for it at the other end of the drain. It should be easy to find if it’s big enough for the kappa to get through, even with your eyes. If you still intend to follow me around.” 

Jaskier felt a great big pool of happiness flood his chest at that, much like he would when people enjoyed his performances enough to sing or clap along, and scrambled to get some clothes on.  
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world! The final battle between the white wolf and the kappa, on the edge of a town where all cower in fear beneath their blankets, woken by the monstrous sounds coming from the dark!” 

“As long as it isn’t your singing that wakes them.” 

The search for the drain was fairly swift, much as Geralt had predicted. It was incredibly difficult for Jaskier though, as he had had to bite his tongue every other step of the way to keep from talking. 

The witcher had taken his time to finish with the sword, whetting the edges until he could shave the hairs from the back of his hand with it. The ragged cuts the kappa had left on said hand were healing rapidly, thick crusts closing them up and the first pinkish scar tissue forming already. 

He had then dressed in his soiled armour, slinging both swords across his back and adding a broad dagger to his belt. A second, slimmer, version was thrust into Jaskier’s hands, with a grunted ‘just in case’ as the only explanation. 

That was when the creepy stuff had started. Geralt had taken two potions from his stash, tucking one away before opening the other. 

“Don’t bother me until this had stopped working.” he’d said, before downing it in one big swallow. 

Now Jaskier considered himself a man of the world. He’d seen enough over the years to know what havoc life could wreak on a body.   
Illness and curses, injuries and just plain old bad luck, they could all leave a man looking like death was on their doorstep. 

The witcher looked like death had already come knocking and had just collected him. 

The first few seconds were fine.   
Then he’d started breathing heavily, groaning and panting with his face scrunched up as all colour drained from his skin.   
The groans only ceased when the witcher seemed to stop breathing altogether, slumping down against a wall. He stayed there for several seconds that seemed like hours to the bard, before squaring his shoulders and straigtening up, looking at Jaskier with eyes completely devoid of colour, pits of black without even a hint of gold or white. 

“Let’s go.” 

So it was that the bard trudged along, doing everything he could to avoid bothering the older man. It was just so damn _hard_.   
Jaskier knew very well he often annoyed people. He had too many thoughts contained in his head and they just had to come out if he didn’t want them to drive him mad. His mouth ran away with him at the worst moments, and he tended to put his foot in more often than not. 

He didn’t want to risk annoying the witcher after being warned very specifically _not_ to though, so he kept his distance, leaning a hip against the back wall of the inn as he watched Geralt take up position above the drain before seemingly freezing in place. 

The first birds had just started singing their early morning greetings when a dark blotch in the river seemed to float in their direction, nothing exceptional if it hadn’t been going against the current.   
It moved slowly, only a hand’s depth beneath the surface, small waves moving over its bulk as it dove down to enter the big pipe that ended just below the waterline. 

At that Geralt sprung into action like a spider whose web was disturbed. He jumped down just as the kappa’s head had disappeared inside the drain, his face twisted in a rictus grin of battlelust as he went. 

The pair of them sunk to the bottom, disappearing from Jaskier’s sight, thrashing and squirming as the kappa tried to lose the weight on its back that was dragging it down into the silt of the riverbed, away from the safety of its hideout. 

It was only for a few seconds. The witcher didn’t waste any time trying to kill it whilst it was in its element, the water a much safer place for the monster than for him. Instead, he grabbed it by the straps of its armour, throwing it up the riverbank like it weighed nothing before rushing after it. 

The kappa met him with arms stretched and teeth bared, screeching with anger at being attacked twice in as many days. The scream was shrill and so high pitched that Jaskier’s throat hurt just hearing it, never mind trying to repeat it for an audience.  
Geralt didn’t seem overly bothered by it, even though he grimaced at the sound. He drew the steel sword from his back, a quick flick of the wrist deflecting the beast’s grasping claws with a swift blow to its armoured arms, causing it to stumble.   
A second flash of the sword cracked across its face, a hit that would probably have been fatal had it been silver instead of steel, but now only encouraged it to attempt to get away. 

A quick dive towards the water was blocked by something the witcher did with his offhand, throwing the kappa deeper into town with a shockwave that pressed Jaskier flat against the stone wall at his back and made the shutters protecting the windows rattle.

The kappa went tumbling head over heels, down a muddy alley between the inn and the house beside it. Geralt followed in three great running leaps, Jaskier coming along at a slightly slower pace. He’d hate to get caught between hunter and prey, and it was very clear who was the prey this time. Right now, he’d probably prefer to face the monster rather than the man.

The kappa clearly knew it too. It had ceased its attacks, pressed into a hopeless defence as all its speed and agility were needed to dodge the witcher’s sword as he kept driving the creature further into town, away from the water. 

Another shrill screech echoed between the buildings as steel met flesh again, and was answered by men’s voices calling out. 

“Oh gods no. No no no no no.” This was _not_ the time for the townsfolk to suddenly grow some balls and take a look at what was going on in their village after dark.   
They would think there were two monsters battling it out in that bloody stableyard Geralt and the kappa were steadily making their way towards, and none of them had had the warning about not bothering witchers high on potions.   
Jaskier wouldn’t be the only one to have grown up hearing stories about what had happened in Blaviken, the townsfolk here could easily turn on the witcher who’d been hired to rid them of the kappa if the healthy fear and dislike they’d displayed before slipped into terror.

There was nothing for it though. The fight had made its way into the stableyard, and Jaskier wasn’t the only one looking on anymore, villagers in nightshirts and robes gathering at the gate, completely ignoring the bard’s shooing motions. 

Neither Geralt nor the kappa seemed to mind their audience. They moved about the yard with lunges and dodges, sword and limbs almost too fast to see as the monster tried to find a way out of the fight without turning its back towards its attacker. 

That proved to be its downfall.   
There was a split second lull in the fight as the kappa made for a wall, clearly deciding that a quick climb to safety would be its best chance.   
That tiny fraction of a moment was enough for a witcher though.   
Another strange wiggle of fingers had fire bursting up at the kappa’s feet, screams of pain replacing the ones of anger that had woken the town before. 

Geralt didn’t waste his time gloating. He stepped right up to the burning creature, tackling it down against the ground, extinguishing the flames as they rolled around in the sticky mud. His sword was slung aside and the dagger he’d tucked into his belt drawn as he straddled the monster, knees pressing its arms against the ground. 

Jaskier first though the witcher was trying to kill the beast, ramming the blade down against its head repeatedly. Then he realized that the man was aiming at the steel cap covering its skull, the blade suddenly sinking down as it broke through whatever had kept the thing in place. 

A rush of water flowed out, over Geralt’s hands and the kappa’s face, and just like that, it was over.   
The creature went limp, sinking down into the mud like a puppet without strings until the witcher got up, dragging it along by the scruff of its neck. 

“Let’s have a talk, you and I.” Geralt growled, his voice just loud enough for Jaskier to hear as he dug the discarded sword out of the sticky sludge it had landed in.   
He’d only just wiped the worst of the muck off when he heard the inn’s door slam against the wall, kicked open with far more force than strictly necessary. 

“Righ. Do make sure not to wait for your friend and loyal follower! Don’t mind me!” he said as he hurried after the pair, ignoring the questions hurled his way by the people gathering around the yard. He did bolt the door though, just in case there was more than one fool who thought dogging a witcher’s footsteps was a grand idea in the village.

Geralt had already made his way past the bar, kicking open doors until he found one that led to a corridor, by the time Jaskier joined him. He could hear voices coming from beyond, the first undoubtedly Rena, and a lower, masculine one, proven to be the stablehand when the young man came rushing from a room. 

“Grandmother! Grandmother come qui-” He was silenced by a punch to the gut that made Jaskier wince in sympathy as he saw the lad double over, gasping for breath much as he himself had done on a dusty road just out of Posada. The witcher then simply grabbed him with his free hand, dragging both kappa and man back towards the common room where he dropped the pair of them before the remains of the fire. 

“Talk.” 

The command was given with such force behind it that Jaskier did exactly the opposite. His mouth snapped shut with an audible pop, just as he was almost bowled over by an old lady screaming bloody murder about robbers and thieves coming into her inn. 

He winced as his hip slammed against the wood of the bar and stretched out a hand to stop the woman from pushing past him, only to realize he was still clutching the dirty sword.   
Rena’s eyes went big as she looked from the weapon to his face and back.   
“And here I thought you were an honest young man.” she said, pale faced but standing as tall as her diminutive size allowed.   
“I should have known you’d be no good, consider-” 

Jaskier would never know why she should have known about his apparent bad character, for that was the moment she saw her grandson in the clutches of the witcher she so despised. 

“Fendo!” she cried as she tried to wiggle past the bard, struggling when he held her by the shoulder with his free hand. “Let him go you brute!” 

Jaskier held fast, surprised at the strength of her even if she was no match for him, only allowing a slow pace towards the hearth where they joined Geralt and his captives.

The lad, or Fendo as he was apparently called, just sat there, staring dreamily as he mumbled away, not seeming to notice his grandmother or the bard at all. Words flowed from his mouth, of horses and debts, cattle and markets. He only stopped when Rena managed to wriggle loose and promptly slapped him in the face. 

“Keep your filthy magic away from him.” she said as she turned to face Geralt, the pure loathing and disgust she felt for the witcher dripping from the words. “They should string you up on a nice tight noose, you and all of your kind.” 

That was the moment the kappa chose to stretch out a pathetically weak arm, reaching for the innkeep with grasping fingers. 

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Jaskier said, forgetting himself as he stepped past the witcher to squat a few paces away from the old lady. “The kappa. You’ve known all along what was going on and you didn’t do shit to stop it.”   
He froze when heard a warning growl and felt Geralt stepping closer to him, half expecting to be manhandled much like the kappa and the youth, but the witcher didn’t do anything but stand there, apparently contend to let Jaskier talk for once.

“Why? Why would you starve your own village? Starve yourself? You _need_ travellers to pass this way. Why attack them?” 

Rena seemed to deflate as he talked. 

“We didn’t mean to.” she said softly, unknowingly repeating what her grandson had said before. “We just couldn’t make ends meet after Fendo’s father died. It seemed like a grand idea at first, having the kappa take a calf as it came to the river to drink. He’s been in the family for generations, he’s never done anyone any harm.” 

“Fendo sold that calf at the market in Posada, two days walk from here. It was enough to keep us from drowning in debt and everyone assumed the beast had been lost to wolves or thieves so we did it again. And again. The first horse was an accident, but it earned us far more than any cow before it, and by then it had gone on too long for us to stop.”

“Because the rumours had started.” Jaskier guessed. “Traffic was drying up so there were no more travelers looking for beds and stables.” 

It was answered with a nod, after which silence fell, the only noise coming from outside as the village woke up.   
Jaskier moved away to sit on one of the many tables, wondering what the hell they should do with this mess. This wasn’t heroic or epic, this was just sad, sad human greed with a monster thrown in to spice it up.

He was shaken from his thoughts when Geralt dropped down on a bench next to him. The witcher’s skin was regaining colour, he noted, and gold bled back into his eyes while the bard watched. 

“Back to normal?” he asked tentatively. “No murderous urges?” 

“Hmmm.”

They sat in silence as Geralt seemed to come down from some sort of high until a guest of the inn stumbled down the stairs, stopping dead in his tracks when he caught sight of the scene in front of him.   
The poor man had just started mumbling his excuses as he stepped back onto the stairs when Geralt ordered him to get the mayor. 

Things went fast after that. The mayor had come swiftly, escorted by a group of the local town militia. He’d taken their statements, accepted Jaskier’s translations of the witcher’s short answers, and then put a bag of coin on the table in front of them. 

“I’ll have them hanging before nightfall.” he promised, waving the militia over to the trio by the fireplace. “I’m sure you have places to be, things to do…”   
He’d left soon after, clearly not willing to stay near the pair of them longer than strictly necessary.

“Well…. It could become a tragic tale on the foolishness of greed.” Jaskier said to break the silence when it only him and Geralt remaining. “Or maybe I’ll remove the context entirely, that’s always an option.”

“Go clear out our room. I have business to do before we leave.” 

The witcher was gone before Jaskier could even think about what he’d said wrong this time. He groaned and let himself fall back on the table he’d been sitting on, silently bemoaning his fate. Why did muses come with such challenges? Why couldn’t he have come across some beautiful maiden to get his creative juices flowing? 

He wallowed in self-pity for a short while, cataloguing all his varied hurts and creating a wonderfully silly song with them before getting up and making for the stairs. 

There wasn’t a whole lot to pack. His own bagage consisted of a single lute, which was easily slung over his shoulder.   
Geralt’s things were almost as easy to pack up, tools and potions chest going back in one saddlebag as the dried and mostly clean clothes went into the other. 

He’d carried it all to Roach’s stall and was using pilfered carrots in an attempt to convince her to do anything other than biting or kicking as soon as he got anywhere near her when the witcher came back, loaded with bags and nets of supplies.   
Jaskier couldn’t resist a grin as he saw a large number of onions hanging from the man’s shoulder. That choice of food was no surprise at all. 

What _was_ a surprise was the armfull of things Geralt pushed into the bard’s own arms, supple leather and thick fabric almost falling into Roach’s hay before he managed to get a good grip. The witcher dropped the rest of his things by the bags, moving on to saddle his horse, greeting her with a pat. Silence reigned between them until he’d tightened the cinch 

“I’m not going to carry your shit for you. Nor will you be allowed to ride Roach.” 

“Right.” 

“You will do your share of the work and you will obey when I tell you to do something.” 

“Right.” 

“Good.” 

And just like that, Jaskier’d apparently been accepted as a traveling companion. He tried to squash the warm, happy feeling in his chest that seemed to rise up from his very toes, but he couldn’t fight the grin that spread as he started packing the new supplies. 

Some time later he trailed after Roach and her master, a good solid pack on his back and new, horribly ugly but very comfortable boots ons his feet.   
They passed the rickety gate once more, crossing the bridge to get back on the road, onwards to new adventures. 

He didn’t even see the two fresh corpses hanging from nooses on the wall above them, or the kappa writhing on the pole it had been impaled on. And if their names lived on in his songs, it was only as minor characters in a greater tale.  
The tale of the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, and his loyal bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what works and doesn't work, and what I can do better. There's no learning without critique. ;)


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